


Welcome to Delta

by MerryWriting



Category: Gears of War - Fandom
Genre: Baird is a smart ass, F/M, Minor canon divergence, Slow Burn, but he's not the only genius in town!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-06-24 20:14:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19730977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerryWriting/pseuds/MerryWriting
Summary: Food is running low, the men are getting restless, and there's still no end in sight. What's worse, supplies of fresh water are all but gone on the ship and on land. Hoffman and Prescott are at loggerheads, and the Gears of the COG army are starting to feel rusty.Emily Dooley can't solve all of the problems on the ship, but her research has convinced her that she can begin the process of purifying the worlds water supply, and that's a start. Figuring out the solution was the easy part; now she has to convince the powers that be to give her the funds, support, and resources to get it done.Delta squad are all too happy to get out into the field, thankfully, but they have some concerns about taking her out with them.Takes place between Gears of War 2 and 3 - canon divergence.





	1. Prologue: Emergence.

The lake shines in the evening light, and, for a minute before it sinks below the horizon, the sun sets the water alight in a show of blazing glory. Three shadows glide through the fire, graceful as dancers and black as sin against the iridescent water, and when they reach the island in the middle of the water they unload. Three children scatter onto the soft sands without looking back and shriek into the undergrowth. Of the twenty or so people that leave the boats, none seem to notice the slight tremor that shakes the earth and makes the water heave. Ripples hiss through the lake then still as suddenly as they began. One of the men, tall and greying at the temples with fierce cairngorm eyes and hard, carved lines beside his mouth, stares at the water before a shout pulls him away.

The barbecue smoke and pop of corks is enough to hide the subtle shakes and sounds, but when the first real tremor comes even drunk revellers pause and look around. The grey man stands again and strides to the water with a strange, loping gait, stops to look around, pulls a laptop bag from one boat and calls out in a surprisingly deep voice, summoning one of the children from the forest.

When the first hole opens up, it does so on the mainland. They’re lucky to be on their tiny island; the monsters that pour out of the wound turn to look, fire a few bullets and then swarm like locust in the direction of the town in the near distance. That’s what they call them, the survivors who gather later. Locust. They destroy, smash, devour everything like a blight on the land, and when the partygoers make it to the nearest evac point they are half their size, and one of the children is gone, but the greying man clings to his case and his child, thin mouth grim, putting them both on the helicopter first,

“No more room, Dr Dooley” a soldier calls, and the little girl, knees scuffed, eyes wet, tries to climb free, "we'll have to come back for you."

“No, Emily, no,” he kisses her forehead, “I’ll see you soon. Be good. Do what the Gears tell you, ok?”

“Ok.”

“Keep this safe for Daddy?” He says, and pats the bag,

“Yes.”

“Good girl.”

Then he steps back and lets the Raven go, watching it even as a second chopper swoops in from the horizon, coming to a halt over the landing zone. When the first volley of Locust bullets come they hit the fuel tank of the hovering Raven and send fire and shrapnel into the sky. Emily Dooley screams and clutches her face where a piece of metal the size of a thumbnail has lodged itself into the flesh and bone above her left eyebrow. On the ground below, the world descends into fire and madness, but her fathers face seems calm before the flames swallow him whole. 

He raises a hand and curls the fingers as if to snatch her image, and then disappears. The war begins. 


	2. Stagnation

“Same shit, different day,” Baird grumbles as they take measured steps, one after the other, around the deck, “always the same shit.”

“Hey, baby, don’t turn down gifts,” Cole laughs, “no glowies, no grubs, a peaceful day, Baird, can’t nobody sniff at that.”

“I can,” Baird says,

“Yeah, yeah, Baird,” Cole says and shakes his head, “whatever you say.”

A series of beeps fills the silence between them,

“Well, at least the shifts over.”

“You really can’t shut up, can you?” Baird says,

“Nope.” Two gears wave to them from the sentry box, saluting as they pass down into the bowels of the ship. The stairs creaks and groan under them, dried blood flakes away from the walkway as they move through to the mess hall cum rec room that serves as the only place of relaxation and fun for the Gears on board.

“Remember when we still had beer?” Baird says as they drop into seats across from Marcus and Dom,

“Don’t,” Dom says, “just don’t.”

“Remember when we had something other than rations?” He asks, frowning at the packet,

“We still get something other than rations,” Marcus says, “now and then.”

“Whatever.”

“What’s eating you, Baird?” Marcus asks, “you’ve had a face like a goddamn foot for days.”

“I’m fucking sick of this shit, is what’s eating me,” he replies, “sick of the ship, sick of the fucking water, the food, the fucking silence. We’re floating in a tin fucking death trap while the glowies inherit the earth.”

“And?” Marcus ask,

“Well, ain’t you sick of it?”

“Sick or not, there’s nothing we can do about it,” Dom says,

“Well, it's still bullshi-”

When the rec room door flies open the room jerks as one. It’s not off-limits to civilians, but they tend to leave the space for the Gears; not today. She comes into the room like a gust of wind in a shabby but bright yellow sundress with a gun strapped to her hip and arms full of trays,

“We come bearing gifts,” the woman hollers and Delta squad turns its full attention on her. The whole room does, in fact, “and a party.”

She skips, almost, to the jukebox, skirt flying, and every set of eyes follows her. Baird’s narrow slightly, widening when she puts on an old tune,

_One promise, we made it, we said we’d never break it, don’t look down, be honest… tell me has it changed?_

“The wheat you boys found on the last trip dried beautifully, it produced viable seed,” she spreads her arms, “so did the corn, barley, and carrots!”

The room rumbles with half-hearted laughter,

“But it gets better.” She jumps onto the table, making Cole and Dom jump back to save their food, “we made flour, the chickens are healthy and laying, and with barely in their diet the cows will start producing again… and we put the waste to good use.” She waves her hand, and two men stagger in with a barrel between them. “We made vodka.”

The cheers, this time, are energetic. Even Baird laughs.

“And!” She takes two steps forward, dainty, doe-like steps that don’t upset the drinks they have laid out. Baird lets himself look, just once, at the expanse of leg on display… it’s not much, just up to the bottom of the knee. But the fragile bones of her ankle seem somehow too good to be true. “We made cake. Kind of.” She laughs and leans, placing one hand on Cole and the other on Baird, using their shoulders to propel herself back to the floor.

_Life can’t get much better, lets just stay together –_

“Who was that?” Baird asks, craning to look for her, but she’s gone in a whirl of colour, taking her friends with her,

“Emily Dooley,” Sam says, leaning forward, eyes narrowing, “she’s a civvie scientist. Got brought on board because of her work. Something to do with water PH and botany.”

“Yeah, I thought I knew her,” Dom says suddenly, “she sent up some water mixes for my tomatoes.”

“They’re looking good, too,” Cole says as he drops into his seat, “but not as good as this. Cake and drinks, baby.”

“Thoughtful of her,” Sam says,

“People seem to like her,” Anya says before sipping her drink and grimacing, “not bad for bathtub brew… still rough.”

“You know her?” Baird picks at his cake,

“Not personally,” Anya shrugs, “but I see her research now and then. She’s brilliant in her own way… the COG never gave her enough credit. Her works non-military.”

“So, it’s useless?” Marcus asks,

“No. Just non-combative.” Anya shrugs. "And you know how much consideration the COG gave that until... well," she says and spreads her hands, "the sinking of Jacinto was actually a blessing in disguise for her career."

The civvies re-enter with Emily and put another few trays on the tables. One of the men, ginger with a livid scar on his cheek that puckers and snarls when he attempts a smile, comments on the song,

“I think its fitting,” Emily says,

“Life can’t get much better?” He asks,

“Well, look, Anthony,” she strides to one of the huge windows and throws it up and open, making it shriek while the room shudders, “no stalks, open ocean, blinding sunshine, vodka, music, cake,” she turns, skirt swirling, and looks at Baird, “good company. I’d say life can’t get much better at all.”

Anthony just laughs. Baird smiles then swallows, for once speechless. For a minute he wonders... then shakes it loose; she’s not even the best-looking woman in the room; just the most obviously female.

“How did you make it safe to drink?” Baird asks without preamble, and she turns grey-green eyes on him with a smile,

“The fermentation process does the most of it, but we remove the salt and imulsion with a fine particle filter and a loaded solvent mineral mix.” It's a surprisingly simple, but sophisticated, solution. He nods,

“Shame we can’t do the same with the rest of the water,” he says, dipping a finger into the vodka to look at the liquid in the sunshine.

“Yes… it is…” Emily gives him a strange look and draws in a deep breath before holding up a glass to the light herself. She places it beside him, slowly, and then pats him on the shoulder, “thank you.”

“For what?” Baird licks the vodka from his finger and looks up, but she’s gone.


	3. The Beauty of Hidden Things

In the dying light of the day all things look more beautiful, but as the golden light filters through the dusty air and sets her eyelashes on fire Emily Dooley opens her mouth and gasps at the beauty of the hidden world before her eyes. Under the microscope, fuzzy but still visible, the seawater sample is clean. Or, that is to say, it is teeming with life. Non-tainted life… as if it was never touched by the imulsion at all. Of course, she could never make enough to replicate this on a global scale. Not right away. But with the right start. In ten years… her breath comes in shorter gasps and the realisation sinks in,

“Oh my God,” she says it like a prayer and looks up at the clock before grabbing a pile of papers and hurrying from the lab in a swirl of white and gold. She takes the stairs three at a time, legs stretched to capacity, and runs into a wall of armour and flesh. Anthony grips her as they swing, stopping her from tumbling back the way she came,

“What the hell are you running for?” He looks around as if for an enemy and breaks her heart in a second. One day it won't be like this, she believes that. She has to.

“Anthony! Anthony, we did it!” Emily gasps and wheels around to face him as she walks away, “it worked.”

“What?” He gives her a strange, lopsided grin,

“It worked.” She grips his face and presses a hard kiss to his forehead. “It worked.”

She skids through the underbelly of the ship, up to the levels that the gears haunt, past the barracks and all the way up to the command deck. She shouldn’t be here, but she’s lucky and she makes it past the eyes and arms of the guards up until she can see the door to Prescott's office. The gears at his door step forward as one,

“I need to see Prescott, it's very important,” she says it all as one breath,

“Not today.”

“Yes today,” she stares at the helmet as if she can push meaning through it into the brain behind it, “it’s very, very important.”

“I don’t care if it’s a cure for rust lung, you can’t just go in without an appointment.”

“Please.”

“What?” He jerks and steps back,

“You heard me, please may I see Prescott.”

“I… no. No you can’t.”

“Ok…” Emily nods and steps away, tripping over her feet and sending papers flying, “oh… oh dear, I’m sorry… I’m so clumsy sometimes.” She beats him to a key slip of paper and leaps over his back,

“Hey, what the-”

She slams the door release as they pull her back,

“Chairman Prescott I need to speak with you!” Emily calls into the gap, and they pull her back just in time for Colonel Hoffman to stride out of the opening doors

“What in the holy halls of hell is this shit? Private? Corporal?” He whirls from gear to gear like a dog looking for someone to snap at, “What is-”

“Victor, it’s alright,” Prescott says, “I know Miss Dooley, what is it Emily?”

“I’ve done it.” She says, eyes watering, “I’ve done it, Nathan. The water samples are clean. Completely.”

“My God…”

“What?” Hoffman looks between them, “the water?”

“Miss Dooley… I… you better come in, you too Victor.” Prescott ushers them in and stoops to scoop up the last of the paper.

In the office, the hum of the ship is almost imperceptible. They sit in an awkward trio; the politician, the general, and the scientist. Emily picks at her dress and lab coat, sniffs, and then clears her throat,

“So, should I…?”

“No, no… let me” Prescott steeples his thin, soft hands and sighs, “Miss Dooley has been working on a solution to Imulsion contamination in the water supply.”

“Dr Dooley," she says absently, "and I’ve found it. The water samples are entirely clean of all contamination. All contamination.” She beams, hands spreads. “I used a-”

“Never mind that,” Hoffman says, “can you do it again?”

“Yes.”

“For the world?”

“I… yes and no,” Emily says, “I can set in motion a process that will clean up the water supply of the world over time.”

“How much time?”

“Depends on how we deploy it, I have a few theories. The most likely scenario is to deploy the solution in selected freshwater lakes, their compact size and isolated locations will make it possible to purify the water to a higher degree, this should have a knock on-”

Prescott raises his hand and nods,

“Don’t waste your explanation on us, Dr Dooley,” he says, “just tell me what you need.”

“I need to leave the ship.” She places her hands on the desk and leans forward,

“No.” Prescott says it with a small, sad smile and Hoffman grunts in agreement. For a minute she feels it, the bond that runs between them like an invisible wire. Emily gapes, blinking rapidly,

“Excuse me?” She asks,

“No, we can’t risk losing our scientists and doctors. You need to tell someone how to deploy your solution and let them undertake it.” Prescott folds his hands,

“I disagree,” Emily says before Hoffman can speak, “it is the job of the gears to fight, and it is my job to find and deploy solutions like these. You will not take this from me and put someone else in danger out of fear.”

“I can order you to hand over your research, Dr Dooley.”

"I can burn it, Chairman Prescott." 

“Nathan,” Colonel Hoffman says quietly, “the girls right. My gears are not-”

“What about Baird? Isn’t he some kind of genius?”

“It took me eight years to come to this point,” Emily says, “I don’t care how much of a genius-”

“Baird is a mechanical wonder,” Hoffman says, “and an insufferable smart-ass, but he’s a soldier, not a…” he looks to her, hand waving,

“I’m an interdisciplinary scientist. Micro-biology and chemistry with a specialist focus on-”

“That.” Hoffman sighs and shifts. “I’ll talk to Fenix. They can get her where she needs to go, they’ve done harder.”

“But will she be able to keep up?”

“She,” Emily stresses the word, turns it into a knife, “saw emergence day up close and has fought just as hard as anyone else."

"As a child," Prescott says,

"Yes. As a child." They are shamed for a moment. "I might not be a gear, but no-one is innocent these days. I’ll be fine,” she says and they turn to look at her, “I’m willing to make the sacrifices needed. I’ll make this work, just help me get there.”

A look passes between them, and she feels it again, the crackle of understanding between two old colleagues. 

The lab is back in order when she steps back in; Gerry wipes his lined brow and smiles,

“You never clean up after yourself,” he says and flops into a chair, “did you see him? I ran into your red-headed friend...” he waves a thin, aristocratic hand as if he can conjure the name from nothingness, 

“Anthony. Yes, I did.” She places her research down carefully,

“And?”

“And… they are going to help me deploy it.” She runs her hands through her hair,

“That’s fantastic, Em,” he says and reaches for her hand,

“I’m leaving the ship, Gerry,” Emily says, looking away,

“What?”

“I’m leaving the ship to oversee deployment of the solution-”

“You’re not a gear, can’t they-”

“I asked them to let me.” She can’t meet his eye; the grief in his face will break her. “I need to do this.”

“And me?”

“You’re staying here.”

“Oh.”

She kisses his cheek and pats his shoulders,

“You’re the only one who can keep it going if something happens to me.” And you're too old for this, she thinks though it would be heartless to say it. He's aged ten years since they entered the ship, or so it seems, and he wasn't young then.

Gerry stands, shaking his head, and leaves without a word, pacing back to the door two, three, four times, before he stamps his foot,

“This is insane, Emily, you’re not a soldier.”

“I know that,” she says mildly,

“So, I’m supposed to be ok with losing you because you want to play adventurer?” He asks.

The barb misses its mark. Emily bites her lip and nods,

“Basically.”

"You're like a daughter to me, girl," he says, 

"I know, but I have to do this." She spreads her hands and then lets him hug her tight. His ribcage is so slender and his heart beats fast, like a little bird caught under the blood and bone. What he saw all those years ago took something from him. 

"Your father would be proud of you." He pats her shoulder. 

"Thank you."

"I am too, Em." 

"Thank you." She takes a deep breath. "I'm scared, Gerry."

"I know. Me too." He kisses her forehead and grips her shoulders tight, hands still strong and steady, even after all these years of fear. "We all are."


	4. Green as Grass

The sunset was pretty. Of course, pretty can't feed you and it won't stop a bullet so Baird says nothing. Cole, however, has no such compunction. Or off switch. _God the man has no off switch._

"I tell you something, baby, this is a nice night," Cole says, turning to look at every inch of the deck as if he doesn't know it by heart, "yes, this is a nice night. Kind of, what's the word? Idyllic? Yeah, that's the word. You know, when I played thrashball, I had this beach house. Mm, lovely, that was the place with the wine cellar, you know? Well, it looked out on the water. But those views had nothing on this. This is something else. And it's free, you know? You gotta love the little things in life-"

Baird let his eyes roll to the heavens, _not the little things. Anything but the little things._

"Why me?"

"What?"

"Nothin'."

"Oh, ok," Cole went silent for a blessed second then laughed, "you know, one time we had a party, big party with the whole team. Well that wasn't such a good idea, cause you know half of those guys were married, and the other half - well, not so much. So this fight breaks out because Taylor brought a few girls, well they were groupies, but you gotta respect peoples life choices you know, anyway these girls they didn't know who was married and who wasn't, and one of them started on Yoan, but his wife, well she was an Octagon Fighter. Well, shit baby, that was the most excitement the house ever saw. No-one was hurt though, and that was good, but-"

"Cole," Baird says, eyes closed, 

"Yes?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Oh, ok. That's cool."

"Sorry."

"It's alright, baby," the cheer is incessant too. Cole slaps him on the back, jarring some dust out of his soul, and probably some chips off of his bones. If another human being never calls him baby in his life, Baird thinks, he'll die happy. _Happier_. At least it's calm. At least the air is fresh. He's trying to focus on the positive, now. In the tight confines of the ship, the COG psychiatrist can't be avoided. Enforced wellness, or the semblance of it, is the only way to get rid of him and those thin, spidery hands. "You alright?"

"Fine."

"What you thinking about?" Cole asks, and Baird grimaces; he cares. 

"Thinking that it's good to have calm sea," Baird says, "and that I'm not looking forward to winter."

Cole nods, deep lines appearing on his brow. Fifteen-foot shadows loom large in his mind, larger than in his own. Probably because he's not the strongest swimmer, Baird thinks, but even strong swimmers like Dom... well, it wouldn't do them much good. _They always said worse things happen at sea,_

"Me neither," Cole says, 

"Maybe we'll be on land again before then," he says, scratching his chin, 

"Yeah, maybe," Cole says, a little more brightly, and rolls his heavy shoulders. 

"Baird, Cole, up here now," Marcus waves from a balcony, "Prescott's office."

"Well, that can't be good." Baird runs a hand across his face. 

"Stay positive, baby, maybe its more cake." 

"Maybe it's a suicide mission."

"Ok, but it might be on dry land."

"... that's fair, actually."

Prescott's office manages to look too expensive for them, despite being on the same rusting shitbucket. Baird takes pleasure in sitting on the plush, gilt chair knowing that the engine oil on his uniform probably won't come out. Hoffman narrows his eyes and then shakes his head. _Fuck him. Fuck this ship._

"Gentlemen." Prescott spreads his arms. 

_Fuck you in particular._

"Chairman," Marcus says and leans back in his chair, 

"I suppose you'll want to know why you're here."

"I supposed we were being sent on a suicide mission." Baird inclines his head before he even finishes speaking. _Did I say that out loud?_

"Corporal Baird I will personally beat the tar out of you," Hoffman says, and Baird inclines his head, _fair,_

"And yet he's not wrong," Prescott says, 

"I never am."

"Baird," Marcus growls on the far right like an old dog,

"Fenix."

"Corporal," Hoffman snaps, 

"General!"

"Baird!" Dom turns to him, jaw tense, 

"Dominic."

"Cole!" Cole breaks the tension with a deep belly laugh. "Come on now, no need for this. Ain't no pissing contest to be won when the Cole Trains here. Just simmer down, Baird, huh?" A warm, broad hand lands on his shoulder, and the quiet wisdom of Cole takes him by surprise again. 

"Sure." He says.

Prescott frowns, eyes flashing in the warm light, and then sighs, 

"If you weren't so smart, I'd have decommissioned you a long time ago," he says, "then again, if you weren't such a smart ass you'd have been promoted by now. Might have done something about that chip on your shoulder." _Kiss my ass._ "Now, I hear you know Dr Dooley already."

"Dooley?" 

"The lady doctor that made the vodka? Hell yeah, nice lady, made that day better" Cole says, 

"Well, she's set to make all of our lives better," Prescott says, "and the life of, well anything left living. She credits you a little, by the way, Baird." He leans back and steeples his fingers. "Says you pointed out something about the purification method for the vodka.",

"No... I just said it was a shame she couldn't use it on water."

"Well she has, more or less, turns out something in the fermentation process was pretty necessary," Prescott says and shakes his head, "I don't know, either way, she's found a solution to our water problem, and other scientists have suggested that with purer water we can start farming again. Properly."

"So, what do you need us to do?" Marcus asks, face blank as a block of marble, 

"See this?" Prescott points at an isolated spot in the mountains. "This, and this?" He points again and again. They nod. "These are remote lakes, you are to deploy Dr Dooleys purification system at each of them. However, you are also to survey the area for outpost viability."

"Outpost viability?" Marcus asks,

"They all happen to be in mountainous areas. Geographers suggest they might have strategic importance. They also suggest that we might find little, if any, stalks there. Something to do with rock composition, I don't know. Neither do you, but you do know locust, and you do know lambent, and, most importantly, you do know war. Help Dr Dooley deploy her solution, and report back to me on the possibility of defended settlements there."

"Where would we land?" Marcus leans forward to watch Prescott, but Bairds mind is worrying at the words. "That's a three-week hike one way to the first site-"

"Help?" Baird asks, 

The room falls silent. 

"You said, help Dr Dooley." He frowns. "She's not coming with us, is she?"

"Right on the money as always, Corporal Baird," Prescott says, "Dr Dooley will accompany you."

"She will not."

"She will."

"No she won't, not all the way, at least," he says, "she'll be dead within a week." 

"Baird," Marcus says, the warning clear, 

"Fenix, you know I'm right," he says and turns to look at him, "that... she's not battle-trained, she's got no experience, and she's..."

"What?"

"Fucking tiny. She's fucking tiny and she wears dresses and-"

"She's made of tougher stuff than you think, Corporal," Prescott says suddenly, and then smiles, "but your concern does you more merit than your combined IQ and career to date." He stands and leans, knuckles on the desk. "Dr Dooley was there on emergence day, took shrapnel in the head at 8 years old. The Raven she was in went down, we don't know how but she got separated from the survivors and made it to a COG outpost on foot. You're right. She's not battle-trained, but she's tough. And more importantly, she's smart. We need her to do this, and she needs you to protect her while she does."

"We can do that," Marcus says. _Can we?_

"Good." Prescott says, "come to see me tomorrow, Fenix, and I'll give you all the details, you can debrief your squad before leaving the day after."

The sun has set when they step onto the deck, and the wind has picked up, throwing sea mist up on onto their skin to be chilled. Baird sighs and watches the fog being swept away by the stuttering gusts, 

"Can we?"

"Can we what?" Dom asks, 

"Can we actually get here there alive?" Baird asks, "because I can study and deploy her cure, we don't need her, but-"

"This isn't about your fucking ego Baird."

"No, it fucking ain't." He clenches one fist. "It's about... ah, you know what, fuck you." Dom shakes his head, twists his mouth like there's a bitter lump in it, and takes the steps two at a time on the way down. Cole slips up, quiet as a shadow, 

"I get you," he says, "but like Prescott says, she's tough. And she's gonna have us."

"It's not right. We're the ones who're supposed to be in danger. We're supposed to do it so other people don't have to. We're..."

"I know."

"It's not right." A simple, chopping hand motion, and a twist of anger slithering across his face. The only sign that Damon Baird has a heart. "It's not right that... it shouldn't be like this."


End file.
